


Interweaving

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gift Fic, John Watson POV, POV First Person, Platonic Soulmates, Present Tense, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:56:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I’m half of an ineffable eternity, weaved flawlessly with its completion.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interweaving

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift fic for [imbored454](http://imbored454.tumblr.com/) for the Sherlock Secret Santa 2012. I hope you like it.
> 
>  
> 
> Not beta-ed or britpicked. I guess that's just my thing when it comes to character studies. All mistakes are, therefore, my own. Along with the OOC-ness that comes with writing inside a character's head.

I don’t know when I ended up as half of a soul.

The way I wrote that made it sort of macabre sounding, I guess, but it’s true. I’m a clean half of one soul, expertly twined and threaded through with its perfect match.

What I’m trying to make a point of is that I’ve never felt more… right. I feel like my existence is meaningful right now, if that makes sense. It might not; maybe it really only makes sense to me, and maybe to him, because we’re experiencing it.

I have purpose. I have someone to take care of – someone that I do legitimately care about – and a fantastic, if not cluttered, flat. We have an interesting career and a…

Actually, I don’t have an adjective to describe our home life. It’s a mixture of lively and frustrating and boring and exhausting and brilliantly hilarious and – yeah, not one word about this – loving.

It’d have to be a descriptive version of ‘Sherlock’, because that’s what it is. Our home life is Sherlock, through and through. His experiments and his whinging and his researching and reading and throwing and yelling and laughing. I wouldn’t have this with anyone else.

That’s the transition back into the “one half of a soul” bit, if I need to tell you.

Because I’m rather sure that he wouldn’t have this with anyone else either. According to Mycroft and Greg and Molly, I’m right. It was kind of something I could tell right from the start. He looked at me differently than a lot of people did when I first came back. They all stared at the cane, right? A lot of people think that they can be surreptitious about it, but it’s pretty damn obvious. Staring is obvious. He didn’t stare, though; he glanced once and forgot about it. It was there in his head though, and I know that his intention was to make himself look even more fantastic to me, but the expression on his face when he saw how shocked I was – how happy, really – when Angelo handed me the cane, it was… Something else entirely.

It looked like pride, but not in himself.

Since then, I haven’t seen that particular look directed at anyone else. I don’t see it all that often anyway, but sometimes I catch a glimpse when he thinks I’m not looking. Err – though, thinking about it, it’s Sherlock, and he probably always knows when I am and am not looking.

So, maybe it’s just when he thinks I need to see it.

There are a lot of people that think his heart is some kind of infinite hollow, but it’s not true. He’s considerate, if not very often. He’s aware of the fact – even if he doesn’t know why – that I get discouraged, being around him so much. His intelligence is overbearing. When it pushes me out of the way too much, I wonder what he gains from having me around.

But, every time, I figure it out; because this man has never had a friend. You can tell by the way he talks to me or to Greg, or even Anderson, that he doesn’t know how to interact. There is a constant stream of questions about why wording a single sentence in four different ways can be painful or consoling or cheerful or solemn.

Greg and I sometimes make jokes about how he looks and acts twelve, but at those moments, seeing him so sincerely open and wondering, it almost hurts. You can’t tell if he denied himself youth or if someone else took it from him.

I’m getting a bit off track, but we’ll work our way back around.

Those moments, when he turns to me and casually asks why _other people_ react the way they do in the face of ‘potentially grievous situations’,  are when I know that I’m needed here – _wanted_ here, because he wouldn’t come to me if he didn’t truly want to.

Sherlock doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to – that much is always very, very clear.

And I think that knowing that I’m wanted as a friend by someone who’s never deemed them necessary is what brought around my thoughts about our souls. It’s an extremely romanticised thought, Sherlock would tell me, but I believe in soul mates, and I believe you know when you’ve met yours.

This is going to fuel so many thoughts about us, I swear to god.

 _I_ know. Maybe he doesn’t; maybe he can’t feel it like I can. But, at some point when I wasn’t paying attention, this became who I am. Baker Street became my home. Sherlock became my family.

This turned into my life.

I’m half of an ineffable eternity, weaved flawlessly with its completion.

Hah – and Sherlock makes fun of my writing. Sod that.


End file.
